Blind stitches
by Time Lord of many names
Summary: To tell the truth, this bar was that much federal that it produced a toothache. Humans were coming here after shifts to take a rest and relax. A bit of springwine and a live music — the best choice of those who still considers Shakespeare one of the greatest poets in Earth history. Garak sneered. He didn't know himself why did he come here.


**Music:** __«Killing Me Softly With Her Song» by Perry Como.__

* * *

Garak was sitting in a poorly lit bar hall on the outskirts of the city that barely began to remember what it had used once to be — before the Dominion war had turned it into ruins. Before Garak had left it.

Subdued lightning was playing flecks, sliding on the stem of the glass in his hand, twinkling on the dark surface of the contents, reflecting off the whites of the eyes. A habitude to be in the shade did never fail him, but there are always flecks — barely noticeable evidences of the fact that it is impossible to hide from all the lights at the same time. Just like now.

After the war humans quitted to be rare on Cardassia — the Federation was helping her to rebuild, scraping off ashes what little was left of her prior. If there was left anything at all. Sometimes Garak doubted it. Or — if putting aside an inapt lie — he doubted it far too often. New ideas, aspirations, new ideals were in the air. The past was fading out and the future was in a haze. And what about Elim Garak?

There was no place for him neither there nor here.

The keys of a piano came to life, lugging away with a pleasant calm melody. Having thoughtfully taken another sip of kanar, Garak fixed his eyes on a small stage where the instrument was — just like in holonovels that his good doctor liked so much.

To tell the truth, this bar was that much federal that it produced a toothache. Humans were coming here after shifts to take a rest and relax. A bit of springwine and a live music — the best choice of those who still considers Shakespeare one of the greatest poets in Earth history. Garak sneered.

He didn't know himself why did he come here.

Some girl in the uniform approached the pianist and whispered a couple of words to him. He nodded and started playing something new — an earth song that Garak hadn't heard before. Ensign — judging by the flickered pin — mounted the scene and reached the microphone with a clear intention to sing. Garak screwed up face, anticipating the sufferings that his ears would have to experience — he didn't give much credit to such initiatives. But the moment she let out the first several words, he seemed to root to the spot, squeezing the glass' stem so that his knuckles turned white.

Her voice — quiet and soft — was deliberately interpenetrating space. She was singing about his childhood. About the one who raised him. About Cardassia — the one he remembered, filled with scents of spices and overheated rocks. About the boundless loneliness and a wish to prove something to himself, and most importantly — to his father. She was singing about friendship and betrayal, about consolation, about pain and exile, about everything he had lost. She was singing about the woman that had awaken something in him. She was singing about the man he had turned out unable to forget.

Simple words were flowing and flowing through him, piercing thoroughly, shearing him to pieces, killing again and again without letting him die. It appeared to him that the stranger had read all of his thoughts, that somehow she knew about him what he himself refused to admit, and now — she seemed to unrip his soul, putting on display every blind stitch that he overcast so carefully.

Garak wanted to rise and go away. To finish his kanar and slip out the door quietly to the night air. To cover his ears with his palms and to forget forever what he had heard. But every word, every tune was imprinted into his memory, repeating itself over and over again, hurting endlessly what was still capable of feeling.

Somebody touched him carefully on his shoulder, and Garak lifted his eyes up. A young doctor was standing in front of him, concern reflected off his brown eyes.

"Excuse me, are you alright?"

It was quiet in the bar. The pianist was gone somewhere and the number of the tables occupied decreased notably. Having realized that he must be sitting stone-still far too long, Garak made an effort and smiled.

"Never mind, doctor," he unclenched his fingers, letting the glass slip softly to and over the table surface. "I'm — perfectly all right."


End file.
